


Goodness, All Good Saints Have Died

by roswyrm



Category: Rusty Quill Gaming (Podcast)
Genre: Brotherly Affection, Canonical Character Death, Fluff and Angst, Getting Together, Grief/Mourning, Implied/Referenced Alcohol Abuse/Alcoholism, Implied/Referenced Suicide, M/M, Marriage Proposal, Post-Canon, Pre-Canon, dylan plays matchmaker, its cute until youre forced to reconcile it with canon, leonardo is clueless, other parts of this will swing a baseball bat full force at your spine, randall is unamused, some of this is adorable
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-10-01
Updated: 2019-10-01
Packaged: 2020-11-02 13:11:33
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,808
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20757926
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/roswyrm/pseuds/roswyrm
Summary: It's almost a happy ever after. The bad guy goes to jail, the hero who exposed her ends up recognized for his talent, he gives an old rival a fresh start and they work surprisingly well together.It's almost a happy ever after, except Randall could have been something, and now all he'll ever be is a tragedy.





	Goodness, All Good Saints Have Died

**Author's Note:**

  * For [blacksatinpointeshoes](https://archiveofourown.org/users/blacksatinpointeshoes/gifts).

> happy birthday connor!!!! i love you!!!!!!! i listened to TWO WHOLE EPISODES of ben's ever shifting american accent and bryn's stoner voice and also janice on ice FOR YOU so i could write this fic! i hope you like it!!!
> 
> fiasco-typical trigger warnings, as well as randall's death being onscreen and suicidal ideation.
> 
> there's also a marriage proposal thrown in here somewhere!! so!!!! you know, there's that!!!!!! fluff!!!!!!!!!!!!! the title is from Fever Dolls' _Gennifer Flowers_ which is a song that i have been listening to on repeat. Working Title: _happy birthday; i'm sad_

It isn’t love at first sight. Dylan knows his brother – he kind of has to after growing up together and defending each other from different versions of the same assholes – and he knows that Randall doesn’t rush into the important things. Their whole life, it’s been on Dylan to coax him into things that really _matter_ because God knows he won’t take the initiative himself. So, no, it isn’t love at first sight, but Dylan would have to be blind to miss the way Randall’s eyes keep following the guy on the ice back and forth and back again across the rink.

Dylan nudges him.

Randall pointedly ignores the nudge and scoots further away so that Dylan can’t do it again.

* * *

They’re loading up the stretcher and Janice On-Ice is still dancing. No one’s looking at her, though, too focused on the fiasco unfolding in the corner. Leonardo babbles, “His blood type is A Negative,” and he’s still clinging to Randall’s hand, walking with the paramedics clumsily, not willing to let go, “he’s allergic to penicillin.” The paramedic who told him to step back before finally shakes him off and gives Dylan a look like _you handle this._ Dylan wraps an arm around Leonardo’s shoulders and holds him where he is. “I–I… I’ll call his mother,” Leonardo decides. Dylan freezes. “Oh, god, what am I gonna tell his mother?”

Dylan mumbles, “You don’t have to, man.” Leonardo looks up at him and there are tears streaking down his face. “She’s not… she’s not here anymore. Remember?” Leonardo blinks at him, clearly not understanding, and Dylan pulls him into a hug. “It’s okay, man. It’s– everything’s okay.” He closes his eyes so he doesn’t have to see his brother getting carried off on a stretcher, like maybe if he doesn’t look, no one can prove his brother’s chest isn’t moving.

“Right,” Leonardo says into his shirt – the fancy one that Randall swears up and down is good luck because their mom told them so when they were small – and Dylan hates the way his voice breaks because it’s familiar. It broke the same way two months ago, and Dylan had to sit in the bathroom and listen because neither of them knew there was anyone still in the rink to overhear their last fight. “Right, yeah, he– Randall told me that. And I asked if I had to worry about his dad cleaning a shotgun on the living room table or something, and he– h-he—” It dissolves into more tears, but Dylan knows this story. He heard the tail end of the sentence as Randall opened the door, quickly followed by Leonardo’s laughter.

They were all so happy, then.

* * *

Randall doesn’t fall flat on his ass this time, and Dylan stands up with a whoop, throwing his hands in the air with delight. Randall beams at him, and for a second, it reminds Dylan of the first time he watched his brother land the loop jump. Their mom couldn’t make herself get out of bed, so Dylan got in the car and took him into the rink, and it was the brightest smile Randall’s ever given him.

“Shit!” Leonardo – Dylan knows how to get a name when he needs one and he wanted to check if the amateur they keep running into would treat his brother right, sue him – shrieks, bodily slamming into Randall. “Oh– oh, gosh, I’m so sorry, I didn’t see– oh my god I-I didn’t mean to—” Randall manages to pick himself up so nonchalantly it almost looks like he hasn’t flushed all the way down to his collarbones— “sorry. Sorry, sorry, uh, let me. I’m just gonna. I was about done practising anyway, sorry!” Leonardo has his back to Dylan, which means that he can do whatever he wants, and only his brother can see him.

Randall hauls Leonardo up and says, “It’s totally fine,” with such an awkward little smile that Dylan mimes retching. Randall uses the hand he still has on Leonardo’s shoulder to discretely flip him off. “Actually, I– mean, if you’re done, maybe I could take you out to coffee?” Dylan puts his hands up to either side of his face in an exaggeration of shock. Randall studiously ignores him in favor of the still-stammering skater he’s holding onto.

The back of Leonardo’s neck is flushed, and Randall lets go of his shoulders, sliding a few inches back from him. “Uh. You. Coffee? With _me?”_

Randall shrugs. “Yeah, you know. I was looking to maybe, I dunno, set up a duo, or something and you’re really good, so. Uh. We could talk that over?” Dylan gives him a thumbs down for the cop-out, and Randall continues to ignore him, but in a more _invested in what his conversation partner is gonna say_ kind of way and not just _being a bratty younger sibling._ Dylan can’t believe he’s related to such a coward.

“Yes!” Leonardo agrees far too quickly before he clears his throat and says, “Yes, that would be. Good. Great, even! Um, let me just change and… th-there’s a café around the corner?”

“Sounds great.”

“Sounds great!”

“It _sounds_ like you don’t need a ride,” Dylan interrupts before he has to watch any other spectacular shows of awkwardness, beginning to walk backward towards the exit, “so I’m just gonna go home myself. Maybe bake some more cookies.” Randall glares, but Leonardo just looks like a startled rabbit. Dylan is beginning to think that’s just his resting state. “Make good choices, dude!” Dylan calls as he saunters out the doors of the rink, and the offended spluttering from Randall is the best gift he could have asked for.

* * *

It’s another thirteen hours in the hospital. It’s another thirteen hours, and neither of them sleep a wink. It’s another thirteen hours, and Leonardo stops crying after the first two, just drinking terrible coffee and shaking and clutching at his ex-boyfriend’s limp hand like maybe, if he clings tight enough, they can work this out. Randall will wake up and they can have their happily ever after, they can work through things together, they can _be_ together.

It takes thirteen hours for Randall’s heart to finally stop.

Dylan thinks that his and Leonardo’s hearts stopped the second he went flying.

* * *

Dylan spins slowly around in the recliner chair set up in the living room for specifically this purpose to find Randall looking off into the middle distance in the way only a long-suffering younger brother can manage. “How was your date?” Dylan asks, and he does his best to keep the smug grin off of his face.

Randall has his shoulders tensed up so tightly that Dylan can’t help but laugh. “Yeah, yeah, you’re hilarious,” Randall snaps, stalking past him with his skates in hand, “and it wasn’t a date!” Dylan rolls his eyes and takes another bite of his cookie. He’s not gonna push it, but he’d better get introduced to his brother’s new skating partner _officially_ at some point or another.

Probably at some banquet or something, the kind Randall keeps getting invited to because of his skating. Or Dylan could make the three of them dinner! It’d be a big dinner, with extra servings set aside for Randall after practice, the way Dad used to make when they were kids. Dylan frowns. Maybe enough extra servings for everyone, he bargains with himself as he turns back around to finish up this week’s Nquirer, seeing as his own appetite’s gotten bigger lately.

Yeah. A nice family dinner. Dylan will pitch the idea once he’s finished editing.

* * *

It’s almost funny, seeing Leonardo drunk again, especially now that Dylan’s sober. It’s almost funny, except it’s really not, because Leonardo can’t hold his liquor and he’s clinging to Dylan like if he lets go, it’ll be the EXtravaganza all over again, and there aren’t words for how badly Dylan wishes he were high right now. It’s almost funny because this is the second time this has happened, because Dylan looks like Randall but a year or so older and with glasses, because when there was a birthday party and Leonardo got drunk and gave the wrong Hammerstein a kiss on the cheek it was hilarious, because Leonardo is sobbing how much he’s missed him and Dylan really, really, _really_ wishes he were high right now.

“I can’t dance anymore,” Leonardo says, and Dylan didn’t ask for confessions, but it’s clear that’s what he’s getting, “I can’t– you’re not there! Not as a duo partner, and not– I love you, and I can’t dance because you’re not there for me to feel happy about.” Dylan picks him up, despite the muffled protests that he wants another drink, and walks outside to a shitty plastic bench. “I miss you,” Leonardo whispers into his shoulder, and it breaks Dylan’s heart all over again.

* * *

Leonardo is a fun drunk. At least, Dylan thinks he is, but he’s too damn drunk himself to know for sure. Leonardo is a fun drunk, and Randall needs to get his head out of his ass so Dylan can tease them about how cute they are together without getting death glares. Also, he wants Randall to be happy, and Leonardo is good for him. Mostly the first thing, though.

Dylan is just mulling over whether or not to shove them both into the linens closet and lock the door when someone slumps themselves over his shoulders from behind the couch and kisses him on the cheek. “I think your brother’s already figured out we’re dating,” Leonardo slurs, and there’s a very confused moment before Dylan puts two and two together and busts out laughing. “You’re not subtle!” Leonardo protests, but it’s so fond that it just makes him laugh harder.

“Wrong brother, man!” Dylan manages through choking laughter, and Leonardo makes a very embarrassed noise before falling over the back of the couch and landing next to him. Dylan beams down at him and sets a hand on his shoulder. “Treat him right, okay?” Leonardo hides his face in his hands, blushing so red he nearly matches the couch, but he’s smiling so widely that it makes Dylan’s chest ache with how clearly in love the pair of them are.

“I will.”

* * *

“Hey, Leonardo,” Dylan says. Leonardo looks blearily over at him, and Dylan sits down on the hospital chair beside his bed. “It’s good to see you again.”

“Yeah,” Leonardo says with a weak smile. His teeth are slightly yellowed, and his face is more tired than Dylan’s ever seen it. “I’d say it calls for celebration, but I can’t bring alcohol in here. Not to mention I– I can’t exactly do any dancing.” The smile tapers off into nothing. Dylan wants to reach out and grab his hand and promise that anything he can do, anything he can give, he will, but the time for helping any of the people who knew him before he was _the_ Dylan Hammerstein has long since passed. “You’re sober now!” Leonardo says, so abruptly cheery that Dylan can feel the hollowness beneath the words.

Dylan tries for a smile anyway, but he knows it comes off frail and fractured. “It’s a work in progress,” he says. _It’s a work in progress_ sounds so much better than _I was clean for three years and then the only friend I could look at without wanting to cry shot himself in the head and I got so high I nearly died myself, and wouldn’t that have been funny, Kevin would have said that I was copying him as always, looking for the biggest headline, except Kevin wouldn’t have said anything because he’s safely six feet under with a bullet in his skull._ Not to mention that _it’s a work in progress_ doesn’t hurt either of them more than they’re already aching. Leonardo nods. Dylan sighs and says, “Look, man, I know you can’t afford the treatment for—”

Leonardo puts a hand on his arm. “I don’t want the treatment, Dylan.” It’s almost dreamlike, the way he says it — completely detached from the pain that having permanent nerve damage must cause. “You’ve done so much,” Leonardo goes on before any of the protests can make it out of Dylan’s mouth, “I don’t want to burden you.”

“You’re not a _burden,_ you’re Randall’s—” they both flinch— “I mean, you’re my friend, Leo. I love you, man, I don’t want to see you suffer.”

“I deserve to,” answers Leonardo simply.

A nurse comes in, says visiting hours are over, and Dylan goes. He pulls out his phone, about to text Kevin, about to ask _do u rember how i convnced u it wasnt ur fault?_ so he can get some advice on how to help, but—

There are so many ghosts in Dylan Hammerstein’s life, and Leonardo’s just become one of the many. He was before now, but this is the first time Dylan’s letting himself see it. There are so many ghosts flitting around the edges of his life, and it’s far too tempting to turn into one himself.

If he took enough of the leftovers from his last almost-overdose, it’d probably be enough to see Randall again. Make an even bigger headline than Kevin.

Dylan shakes his head, shoves his phone back into his pocket, and starts the long walk home as the red leaves blow past his feet in the early autumn wind. He’s got a life to live; a good one, too. He’s not going to just throw that away.

He owes it to the ghosts.

* * *

Dylan knows about the ring. He wasn’t _snooping,_ alright, he was just out of socks, so he went to steal Randall’s fluffy ones, and there was a little black box in the back of the drawer and when he opened it to check if it was some of the special ingredient for the cookies, it was a little silver ring.

He deserves an award for his reaction when Randall tries to casually lean on the doorframe (he misses the mark by just enough that he crashes into the wall a bit) and blurts, “I think I’m gonna ask Leonardo to marry me.”

Dylan says, _“Whoa,”_ eyes wide, and apparently he isn’t overacting. Maybe it’s just because he’s so expressive the rest of the time. “That’s awesome, dude! When are you gonna do it?” Randall shrugs, and they really are perfect for each other. Dylan’s been saying it since last year, but it really hits him now, and it’s harder than it should be not to tear up. 

“I was, uh… I was gonna do it after practice today.” He laughs self-consciously, rubbing at the back of his neck. “Take advantage of all the endorphins, you know?”

Dylan frowns. “You don’t need to. He’s gonna say yes, man, he loves you. Like, it’s really gross how much he loves you, I could see it from space—”

“Yeah, yeah,” Randall says, waving him off, “I know. But.” He sighs, sitting down on the couch with a soft thump. “He’s too good for me, Dylan. I’m just– what if he doesn’t want to settle for a guy who couldn’t make it to the Olympics, and who can’t talk about his feelings without getting angry, and who– look. For every bad thing about me, he’s got three things that make him practically a saint, and I just—” Dylan stands up and pulls his idiot brother into a hug— “mmph,” finishes Randall, muffled into Dylan’s Halloween sweater.

“He loves you,” Dylan promises, tears beginning to clog up the back of his throat, “and you love him, too. I’ve never seen anybody as happy as when the two of you are out there dancing, just smiling at each other like lovesick teenagers.” Randall makes a noise of protest, but Dylan knows by now how to hold his brother in a headlock so he can’t get out and argue intelligibly. It’s just kind of a skill you pick up. “You’re gonna finally get this damn routine down, and you’re gonna propose, and he’s gonna say yes, and I’m gonna cry for like, three weeks straight,” Dylan says, no room for argument in his tone.

Randall stomps on his foot, and Dylan grunts in pain, finally letting the little pain in the ass go. “You’ve never done anything straight,” is the first thing Randall says, and Dylan can’t tell whether to giggle or stab him. There’s a cautious smile on his face though, so Dylan ends up laughing at the (bad, just terrible) joke and sitting back down in his chair with a grin. “I love you,” Randall says, and there are so many different meaning wrapped up in those three syllables that Dylan _does_ start crying, and Randall has to hug him to make him calm down again.

“I love you too, little man. More than anything.”

**Author's Note:**

> fiasco was sad and gay and i have no idea which of the hammestein brothers is older but this is how i wrote it and damn if i'm gonna change it now. happy birthday, darling, i love you dearly and i still cant believe ben's killed not one, but TWO angry boys by chucking their skull/neckbone out the window. amazing.


End file.
